Pretending
by NevilleBamf
Summary: "She played a part, just like the rest of them did, pretending that nothing hurt and that the world was still beautiful." Lily Luna Potter is not blind. She can see what the war did to her family.


Lily Luna Potter was a smart girl, even though she was only nine. She was loud, wild, so like her mother, as everyone remarked, with a fiery temper to match her red hair. And though she was not like her cousin Rose, who was logical and read books and could spout off facts about anything and everything, Lily knew she was smart. Being loud and wild didn't mean she couldn't still be picking up on things, exploring the world in a way that books didn't allow.

No one had ever told Lily about all the details of the war, not even her parents, who were usually so open to sharing all of their knowledge. She knew, of course, the basic facts, having picked up bits and pieces in conversations she'd overheard between her older cousins. There'd been a big battle between evil wizards and good wizards, which had taken place at Hogwarts. Lots of people had died, including Teddy's dad and mum, and Uncle Fred. And even though all the evil people were powerful, the good side had won in the end.

Except Lily, being far wiser and entirely more intuitive than she appeared, knew that the war would never really be over for her family. It still hurt. It would always hurt, even if it was a long, long time ago, and even though everyone pretended it didn't. She knew this because she watched them-all of her aunts and uncles and her mum and her dad and her grandparents.

* * *

Aunt Hermione always wore long sleeves. Even in the heat of the summer, when Lily was positively sure that her aunt would be unable to stand the sleeves for even just a moment longer, the sleeves, covering her arms, remained. "She's not ashamed, Lily. It only makes her sad, looking at her arm," Uncle Ron had said slowly, when Lily had asked why Aunt Hermione never wore anything that showed her arms, even though it was so hot. He had not said what was there on the arm of her beautiful aunt, nor why it made her sad, but Lily didn't need him to. The pained look in his eyes had been answer enough.

* * *

Uncle Percy came to all the family events, skipping work if he had to. He never forgot a birthday or an anniversary, and he was always around. He laughed entirely too loudly and for far too long, hugged entirely too hard, and apologized far too much for everything. Though it was annoying, Lily let him do all these things, laughing with him, hugging him back, and accepting his apologies over and over again. Uncle Percy needed to overcompensate, to smother everyone in his love, and Lily let him.

* * *

Uncle George wasn't whole. He had a hole on the side of his head where his ear used to be. He said it didn't hurt anymore, promised. Maybe the place where his ear had been didn't hurt anymore, but his eyes were the saddest eyes Lily had ever seen, and she knew that his heart must hurt. Lily had heard about Uncle Fred from her mum, and she'd heard about how close Uncle George had been to him. "Like one person," Mum had said. Uncle Fred had been dead for a long time. So Uncle George laughed and joked and pretended to be whole again, without his twin. But Lily knew he still hurt, every minute of every day. Because when he smiled, it never reached his eyes.

* * *

Grandma Molly cried at night, when she thought no one could hear her. Lily slept over at the Burrow sometimes, sleeping in her mum's old room with Albus. The sobs were not loud, but they were there, and Lily heard them. She didn't know what the tears were about, of course- perhaps for Uncle Fred, or for Teddy's mum and dad, but they were quite possibly the most terrible tears Lily had heard in all her life. Those were the kind of tears, Lily came to realize as she listened, that couldn't be fixed with a hug or some biscuits. Those where the kind of tears that meant that whatever had been broken could not be fixed.

* * *

Grandpa Arthur couldn't fix Grandma Molly. He couldn't fix Aunt Hermione, or Uncle Percy, or Uncle George, either, though he tried. Those muggle things he fiddled with in the shed were so entirely different from the broken people he lived with. They were easier for him to understand- the muggle things were- because they had pieces and parts and Grandpa could deal with that. But he didn't know how to get Uncle George to smile real smiles, or how to make Grandma Molly to stop crying. They were broken in a different way than the things sitting in the shed, and they would always be broken, no matter the effort Grandpa put in.

* * *

Uncle Ron was judgmental. Not of others, no, of course not. He was judgmental of himself. He set his self expectations so high that he couldn't reach them, and when he fell short he criticized himself. He held no love for himself whatsoever, but he freely loved everyone around him. Growing up with so many siblings had to be a part of that, as he most probably had felt overshadowed for the majority of his childhood, but Lily knew this wasn't all. Her Uncle Ron, however loving he was, could hold onto grudges for a long time. He didn't forgive easily, and perhaps that was why he refused to forgive himself. Lily didn't know what he'd done that was so horrible he couldn't remember how to love himself anymore, but she knew it was a grudge he was holding. A grudge, Lily didn't doubt, against himself. And however much Lily wanted to climb up on his lap and tell Uncle Ron that she didn't blame him for whatever had happened, that no one blamed him, it was not Lily's forgiveness he craved. It was his own.

* * *

Dad never put his wand down. He wasn't scared. Not at all. He was just so ready for anything that it killed Lily to watch him. All the muscles in his body would tense at the slightest unfamiliar noise, and he wouldn't relax until he was sure that everything was okay. War had done this to him. Lily didn't need anyone to tell her that. She saw the scars of war in his every movement. The way he would hold mum's hand so tightly in his and not let go for the longest time. The way he woke in the night, tangled in sheets, screaming the names of people Lily didn't know; she would never know them, either, because they were dead. The way he rubbed his forehead and the back of his hand and never complained about a single thing. The way he hated lockets, and camping, and Gringotts, and mazes, and portkeys, and graveyards, and most snakes, and talking about his feelings. His actions explained more to Lily about the war than any verbal explanation could have done.

* * *

Mum was like Dad. She never put her wand down, though she wasn't scared. It was as though she expected to need to fight something off soon. And she, too, had taught Lily about the war, though she'd never said anything about it, and though she never meant to. Lily saw how scared she got sometimes. How scared she was of diaries, and red paint, and snakes, and the second floor bathroom at Hogwarts, and of being alone. Mum woke in nightmares almost as often as dad, not screaming names, but simply screaming. The worst nightmares were on the nights that Dad was away on Auror missions. Those nights, the screaming echoed through the house, accompanied by sobs. But in the mornings Mum pretended that it hadn't happened, any of it, and Lily pretended with her, for her sake. Because that was the best way, wasn't it?

* * *

Through the years, Lily learned how to play her part well. She wasn't nine anymore, but a big girl of twelve. And she still pretended to be naive, and pure, and altogether ignorant of the world, even though she wasn't, and probably never had been. All of her family had seen too much in the war, experienced too much pain and anguish to ever be pure and ignorant again. So, for them, she acted the part of the little girl who was still unharmed by the world's unforgiving hands. She played a part, just like the rest of them did, pretending that nothing hurt and that the world was still beautiful. And it was beautiful, some days, when she forgot that she was just pretending. But then she remembered her mum's nightmares, and Uncle George's sad eyes, and Aunt Hermione's sleeves, and she knew that the world was not as beautiful as it looked. It had hurt all of the people she loved, scarred them and made them sad and broken and distant.

When she turned fourteen, they finally told her, as they had done with her cousins and brothers. All of them gathered in the sitting room of the Burrow: Uncle Percy, Uncle George, Uncle Ron, Aunt Hermione, Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Charlie, Uncle Bill, Aunt Fluer, Aunt Audrey, Aunt Angelina, and Mum and Dad. They explained the war and the experiences leading up to it, for once not attempting to hide the pain in their eyes. And afterwards, when she had heard every last horrible bit, Lily let her dad hold her while she cried.

All did not suddenly become better, and perhaps it never would, but Lily was okay with that. She was alive and they were alive, weathered and no longer innocent as they once had been, but alive all the same. And though they hurt, though they would always hurt, the sun still rose and the earth still turned and life went on, even for the broken.

**_FIN._**

_A/N The plot bunnies would not go away. It had to be written. Please review. _


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